The Art of Getting Up
by Mandelene
Summary: Matthew has always wanted to be a professional hockey player, so when that dream is stripped away from him, he must learn the hard way that giving up isn't nearly as satisfying as getting up.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was requested by an anon on Tumblr. You guys just want me to torture poor Matthew some more. How could you?

Enjoy and please leave a review if you can! Reviews are my fuel. :D

* * *

Have you ever wanted something so bad it hurt? Ever got up at three o'clock in the morning and imagined it being so close you could pick it up and put it in the palm of your hand? Ever think about it all day and night—the whisper calling out from the far back of the stadium— _come and catch me before it's too late?_

What's the point of life if you can't have your dreams? If you can't have some kind of beacon guiding you a step closer to a better place each day? If you can't have something worth fighting for?

Since Matthew first learned how to walk, he has wanted to play hockey. He remembers dragging either Papa or Dad down to the rink every Saturday morning at the break of dawn, and before he ever knew how to skate, he would watch in awe as others glided down the ice. It was like they were floating on air.

It was magical.

Somehow, Matthew could always feel that the ice was where he was meant to be, and the minute he watched his first hockey game on TV, he knew he wanted to be just like those players in their oversized striped jerseys. It just clicked. He could _see_ himself standing there among the rest of the team—a number on his back and fans cheering his name.

He remembers getting down on both knees in his parents' bedroom and begging them to sign him up for professional skating lessons, and after weeks and weeks, he'd finally convinced them. He learned how to make the ice an extension of himself—learned to float on it like he'd been watching professionals do for years.

Winter was always his favorite time of year. As soon as the pond beside the house would freeze over in mid-December, he would march outside with his skates and get Alfred to play hockey with him, except Alfred has never taken to the ice as naturally as he has. His brother is clunky in his movements—clumsy on his feet as he slips and slides over and over again, giving Matthew the upper-hand.

Matthew has tried to be his teacher, but it's a craft Alfred doesn't care to learn. Years later, he will realize that not everyone shares the same dreams. Some people search forever and ever to find their dream but never do. Perhaps it can sometimes be better not to know.

In high school, Matthew joins the hockey team. Dad doesn't want him to do it at first—he's afraid he'll get hurt, but Matthew tells him that _not_ joining the team will hurt him even more. So, Dad can tell him as many horror stories as he wants about hockey players getting permanent brain damage, getting their coronary arteries slashed open, and breaking multiple bones, but none of that succeeds in swaying Matthew because you can't just give up on your dream whenever you want to and tell it no. It follows you and demands to be heard, no matter how hard you try to forget about it. Real dreams stick.

Thus, even Dad, who has seen countless athletic-related injuries in his years of experience working as a physician, surrenders and gives him permission to join the team at long last.

The four years that follow are fulfilling and beautiful and every other magnificent adjective one can come up with. Some days, Matthew stays late after practice or as late as he can get away with before the skating rink's personnel kick him out in order to improve his technique.

But when he gets to his senior year, suddenly everything becomes about college. His mind runs wild with the possibilities of what it would be like to be awarded an athletic scholarship from an amazing school that would allow him to continue playing hockey throughout his studies and potentially open the door to a future opportunity to play professionally.

What people don't tell you enough about dreams though, is that life can stomp all over them whenever it feels like it. It can be random—coincidental. Or maybe you're one of those people that believes everything happens for a reason. Matthew isn't. He just believes things happen, and you can't control them. It's a lottery, and most of the time, your number isn't the one that gets called. So, you can be anything you want to be as long as it's within the confines of the cards you're dealt.

How's that for a motivational poster?

* * *

It all starts at the end—the end of the season, that is. It's early March, which means it's high time for the regional tournament. It's the biggest game Matthew has ever had to play yet, and there will be talent scouts there. If he can prove himself tonight—if he can play better than he has ever played before and can show he has a raw gift and the drive to develop it, he can be guaranteed a full-ride to the university of his choice.

All he has to do is make sure he's at his top form.

That morning, he forces a protein shake down his throat for extra strength, cleans his skates, and blasts his "ready-to-take-on-the-world" music playlist on his iPod. Everything depends on this one night—but no pressure or anything.

"You're coming tonight, right, Papa?"

"I wouldn't miss it."

"And Dad's going to be there this time, too?"

" _Oui_ , we will both be there to support you."

Support sounds a lot like " _we're counting on you not to mess up_ ," even if that's not how Papa intends for it to sound.

"Dude, you need to chill It's just one game," Alfred says as he pours himself a bowl of cereal. "Don't get your panties all twisted."

Of course Alfred doesn't understand. How could he? He's never dedicated his entire waking life to one dream.

The game is set to start right after school, and although Matthew attends seven classes that day, he can't recall a single word that is spoken in any one of them. He's too busy imagining himself skating to victory while he practices his internal pep talk. He's never been this anxious about anything in his life. His entire future is in the hands of just a few hours.

When the final bell of the day rings, he bolts out of his seat and heads straight for the rink, heart pounding and hands shaking like he's about to give a presentation in front of a thousand people. It's all a nervous blur, and there are butterflies going wild in his stomach when he changes into his uniform and joins the rest of the team for the pre-game motivational speech.

Their coach recycles the same words he said at last year's final game, insists they have fun above all else (yeah, right), and then they're off and making their way onto the ice, skates scraping softly against the smooth, glassy surface.

The crowd erupts with noise, and Matthew has to battle the urge to vomit. He doesn't even try to spot his family in the crowd—doing so would definitely make him puke. It's as though the whole world has suddenly dropped itself onto his shoulders. Everything feels heavy—his shoulder-pads, his skates, even the _air_.

The buzzer goes off, and he works his way across the ice like it's second-nature. He has practiced so often that this is an art form to him. He plays a forward position—always has. He can predict what the other players will do just by the placement of their feet and their posture—can pick out who will dive for the puck too late or make a poor pass.

What he doesn't predict, however, is that another player will bash into his side and slam him against the stands so hard he sees stars. His body ricochets against the stanchion by the opposite team's bench, and there's a horrific bang of noise. He swears something rattles in his head upon impact, and his ears begin to ring as he loses his footing on his right skate and falls back-first onto the ice. The air in his lungs gets knocked out of him, and before he can attempt to move, a third player fails to stop his momentum and crashes into him a second time, accidentally hitting him in the face with his hockey stick.

He thanks his protective gear for taking at least some of the brunt of the collision for him and tries to stand up, only to become aware of a burning, excruciating pain that radiates around his hip and chest. Within seconds, he collapses, causing the crowd to gasp with concern. It's like there's lava running under his skin and his muscles have been beaten with a hammer. He doesn't dare to try to get up again.

Hardly a minute into the game, and he can already hear the sound of his dreams whooshing past him as the talent scouts undoubtedly shake their heads and probably point and laugh at how much of a fool he is.

It feels like he lies there for an eternity, arms curled around his chest as a silent scream passes his lips. He has never been in this much pain, and his heart starts pounding in fear as his vision gets blurry. He looks up at the bright lights above him and thinks maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die right here and now—at least he'd be spared from experiencing further embarrassment.

The game stops, the crowd goes silent, and he swallows thickly, hoping this is all a nightmare. He'll wake up in his warm bed any minute and laugh about how screwed up his subconscious mind is.

Everything he has ever worked for is gone, just like that.

" _Matthew!"_

"Sir! Get off the ice!"

"I'm his father!"

He knows that voice. Within seconds, Dad is kneeling beside him, green eyes wide with worry as he appears in his field of view. "Matthew, love? Can you say something?"

"B-Broken," he groans out in response, coughing from the ache in his chest. Everything is broken—his dreams, his plans, and probably all two hundred and six bones in his body. Unable to protect himself from the emotion clawing its way up out of his gut, he lets out a sound that is probably a sob and cringes when a number of tears fall from his eyes.

"Okay, okay," Dad mutters, hands jittering even though he's usually able to keep his cool at moments like this. "Hold still...No, no, don't sit up! What did I just say?" he chides, keeping a steady hand against Matthew's chest.

The warmth of Dad's touch makes him feel a dozen times better already, like someone is pulling him up from rock bottom and wrenching him out of the darkness. It's the last straw needed to make him burst into a waterfall of tears and before long, he's wailing.

"Shh, shh, poppet," Dad says, desperately trying to soothe him. "It's all right."

"MATTIE!"

He lolls his spinning head to the side and sees an ashen-faced and terrified Alfred come rushing to join Dad's side. Papa is right behind him.

"Oh, God. Are you alive, bro? Jesus Christ, man. That looked awful!"

" _Mon chou_! Are you all right?"

Dad glares at the two of them and barks, "Stop it! You're frightening him! Give him some room…Matthew, I'm just going to check something. Don't move."

That's never a sentence he enjoys hearing Dad say. He watches through watery eyes as his father pulls up his jersey and places his fingers against his right hip, and instantly, he screams out in pain, sweat cropping up on his forehead. He's surprised he hasn't fainted yet.

"Don't kill him, Dad!" Alfred cries out, afraid to get too close.

"Shhhh, it's okay," Dad croons, ignoring Alfred. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls for help, keeping his calming hand on Matthew's chest. "Yes, I need an ambulance at the ice skating rink between Hamilton and Sixth Avenue. My son was in a hockey accident and can't walk… Otherwise responsive and conscious, yes…Thank you."

An _ambulance_? Please, no.

Dad puts down the phone and sighs, regaining some composure. "Just hold on, love."

"D-Dad, it hurts," he says helplessly, and even the heaving breaths of his cries become painful.

"I know, my boy. Help is on the way."

It's then that Matthew's coach chooses the wrong time to approach them and says, "We need to get him off of the ice."

"That's not going to happen until a stretcher is available. He can't stand, and he can't be moved any other way, or we run the risk of worsening his injuries," Dad says firmly, leaving no room for dissent.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, now kindly allow me to do my job."

The coach slumps his shoulders, apologizes, and walks away, too intimidated to offer a helping hand.

Alfred smirks and punches Dad in the shoulder playfully. "Good work. You're pretty scary when you're angry."

Dad narrows his eyes, unamused, and turns his full attention back to Matthew. "I'm going to take off your helmet now, love. Stop me if it causes you any pain."

The helmet slides easily up and off his head, and that's when Matthew realizes his nose is wet. He reaches up a hand to wipe at it, but Dad stops him midway and pulls his hand down again.

"Don't touch it. Your nose may be broken. Breathe through your mouth for now…That's it. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes."

Dad clicks his tongue and doesn't seem the least bit happy with this news. "Look straight up at me…Good," he murmurs gently before pulling up each of Matthew's eyelids in turn and flashing a light into his eyes.

"Oww, oww, oww!" Matthew whines, gnashing his teeth, and Alfred starts rocking around restlessly on his heels, wanting to do something to help.

" _Mon Dieu_. Arthur? Is he going to be all right?"

Dad nods encouragingly at Papa's question and carefully dabs at Matthew's nose with a handkerchief. "Does your shoulder hurt as well?"

"I have to finish the game," Matthew mumbles, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as he evades the question. Yes, his shoulder is killing him, and his ears are still ringing.

"Absolutely not. You're in no condition to continue. You're in need of multiple x-rays, a CT scan of your head, and rest."

"This was my _one_ chance," he pleads, tears rushing down his face. This is a battle he knows he can't win, but he wants to put up a fight anyway. "I may never get an opportunity like this again."

"Your health comes first. You won't be doing anything until these injuries of yours are checked over."

"But—!"

"No, Matthew. That's my final decision…I'm going to feel your abdomen now. Let me know if anything hurts or feels tender."

Another sob escapes him, and Papa rubs his left leg, trying in vain to cheer him up.

"W-what's wrong with me? Why can't I stand up?"

What if he can never play hockey again? What if—?

"Any pain when I press here?" Dad continues, staying focused as he pushes a hand against the right side of Matthew's stomach.

"No… Dad, what's going to happen to me?" he whispers through gritted teeth.

Dad purses his lips, grabs Matthew's wrist to check his pulse, and says, "You likely have a contusion on your hip—commonly referred to as a hip pointer. Generally, it isn't dangerous, but it can cause a great deal of pain and make it difficult to walk. I'm more concerned about the possibility of a fracture or a broken rib…Take in a deep breath through your mouth."

He does as he's asked, but his tears increase in number, and he starts shaking with fear.

"Shhh, shhh," Dad hushes him again, smoothing his hair back carefully. "It's okay, you're doing just fine, my boy…Can you cough for me? Does that hurt?"

Matthew coughs as asked and shakes his head.

"Excellent," Dad murmurs before softly laying both of his hands on Matthew's chest so that his fingers form a W-shape. "Take another deep breath."

Immensely curious, Alfred leans in and asks, "Uhh, what are you doing?"

"Checking for a fractured rib or collarbone," Dad explains, brows furrowed as he tries to concentrate, "and ruling out any damage to his lungs…Everything seems fine. Francis, find out whether that ambulance is here yet, if you wouldn't mind."

Papa hurries off, and now it's just Dad and Alfred that are hovering over Matthew, equally concerned.

"Hey, Mattie, I have a really solid knock-knock joke. Wanna hear it?" Alfred asks.

"No."

"Well, I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Knock-knock."

Matthew groans and shuts his eyes, dizzy. Someday, he will appreciate his brother's attempts at lightening the mood, but not today. It's too soon. "Who's there?"

"Cows go."

"Cows go who?"

Alfred laughs softly and says, "No, silly, cows go moo."

Against his will, Matthew opens his eyes, cracks a smile, and chuckles. "You're such an idiot."

"A knock-knock joke a day keeps the doctor away, bro," Alfred insists, resting a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "You'll be good as new in a little while. Right, Dad?"

Dad nods his head and smiles, pleased with Alfred's attempt at comedy. "Everything will be just fine."

"See, bro? You heard it from the expert himself—you're gonna be okay. Hang in there…Here they come with the stretcher, Dad."

"Step to the side for a moment, Alfred," Dad says as the EMTs arrive—two young men. He summarizes the night's events for them, gives a quick background of Matthew's medical history, and then helps them lift Matthew onto the stretcher, minding his head. "Suspected hip pointer, possibly fractures of his nose and shoulder, and a grade two concussion with a post-traumatic migraine."

He's concussed? That's news to him, but it makes sense. He groans again as he starts to get rolled off the ice, and Alfred tails them, never letting him leave his sight the entire time.

"Matthew? How is your head feeling now?" Dad asks him, and the question sounds slurred to his ears.

"Mrrugh…"

Dad taps his healthy shoulder lightly, not willing to let him be just yet. "Try to stay awake. I know you're tired, but you can sleep later…Stop, lads, he's going to be sick. Turn him onto his left side."

Matthew feels himself get rolled over by two pairs of gloved hands but has no say in the matter. A moment later, his head is hanging over the edge of the stretcher, and Dad is holding him as he throws up.

"It's all right...Alfred, go and wait with Papa for now and meet us at the hospital," Dad says when he sees Alfred grimace and involuntarily gag at the sight. "Matthew will be fine."

Alfred hesitates and wants to stick around, but then Matthew retches again, and he takes that as his final cue to leave, too squeamish to stay. He's notorious for having sympathy pains and passing out upon seeing too many bodily fluids, and the last thing they need is for him to start losing his lunch, too.

"Better?" Dad asks, rubbing his upper back.

They start moving again, and before he knows it, he's being put into the back of an ambulance. One of the EMTs stays by his side while the other gets behind the wheel.

Dad, meanwhile, sits on a little bench beside the stretcher and holds his hand, trying to offer some comfort. Except, what is he going to do? There's nothing he can say to reverse time and make things better again. He can't magically help him back onto his feet again within the next few minutes. All he can do is sit there and try to be reassuring on some level.

"It's going to be all right," Dad says for what feels like the millionth time, and Matthew wants to hit something because it's _not_ going to be all right. Everything is ruined. "I'm sorry."

Those two words break Matthew more than any physical force ever could. They are words of surrender.

The EMT opposite Dad frowns, vigilantly starts peeling off Matthew's gear and his shirt, and says, "Stay strong, bud. Sports injuries are the worst."

Stay strong? All he can think about is the bang of the collision and how he crumpled down to the ice like a sinking ship.

"Bloody—" Dad suddenly hisses, cutting himself off before more colorful words can escape his mouth. He's staring, bug-eyed, at Matthew's shoulder, and when Matthew looks over to see why, a giant splotch of red and purple bruising greets him. Luckily, he can't see the full extent of how bad it is.

"Is it dislocated?" he asks, scared.

"No, but—" Dad stops himself, running a hand over the swelling. He doesn't elaborate, which usually isn't a good sign.

"How bad?"

Dad is still gawking at the injury. He doesn't say a word and chooses to ever-so-delicately lay an icepack on it.

"How bad?" Matthew asks again, waiting for a real answer.

Dad purses his lips for a moment and finally mutters, "Bad."

Matthew feels his blood become cold, and the color drains from his face. That's Dad-talk for "you can forget about playing hockey for a _long_ time." It means this isn't some minor injury he'll recover from within the week.

When they reach the hospital and he gets wheeled into the ER, his mind is only present for half of what goes on. After some waiting, a nurse and a doctor come in to take stock of the damage, and there is talk of "could be a proximal humerus fracture, but we won't know until we get an x-ray" and "let's get a CT scan of his head, too, and an x-ray of that hip." By far, the most frightening snippet of the conversation is "His nose is broken and will have to be set, but I don't want to torture him right now while he's this anxious."

As if he won't be more anxious about it later! Little does he know, that's more doctor-talk for "we'll give him something to calm him down in a while." So, he ends up earning himself a generous dosage of valium along with painkillers. Against his will, his racing thoughts about what a failure he is and how he'll never amount to anything because he'll never be able to play hockey again are zapped right out of him. He is left feeling hollow. No sadness. No anger. No anything. Maybe that's for the best.

"That's it, just relax. You'll get some imaging done and then you can see Papa and Alfred, all right?"

"Dad…" Matthew hiccups, and even though his brain has been lulled, his body is still stuck in grief. "I messed up."

Dad embraces him carefully so as not to cause him any additional pain, and whispers, "No, you didn't mess up. Accidents happen. Athletes get hurt sometimes, and it can happen to anyone. It's not your fault."

"But I failed my team and the talent scouts."

"Your team just wants you to be safe and sound again. As for the talent scouts, they can bugger off. They wouldn't know talent if it struck them in the face," Dad grumbles, and Matthew has to let out a noise that resembles a laugh at the last part of that sentence. "There will be other opportunities, love. I can promise you that. Life is full of chances, and this won't be your last."

"How can you be sure?"

"I've been living on this planet for longer than I will admit, so I can speak from experience. Don't worry about your next step for now. Let's just focus on making you well again, and it will all fall into place."

Dad still thinks everything happens for a reason.

And he's wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for your responses to the first chapter! Sorry for a bit of a wait. Hopefully, I'll be able to post chapter 3 soon!

* * *

"BP and heart rate are looking better thanks to the pain medication," Matthew's nurse says, mouth curved into a motherly smile that's meant to be reassuring. She checks his IV, wedges a pillow under his hip to reduce the swelling, and tells him his doctor should be in soon to discuss the results of his x-rays and CT scan.

But before that happens, Alfred and Papa come rushing in to visit, a hundred and one questions rolling off their tongues at once as they swarm around his bed and fuss over him. Papa pats his head, Alfred grins such a forced, wide grin it must hurt, and Dad tuts at both of them in exasperation.

Matthew's grateful for their concern, but with so many other things on his mind, he can't keep up with them and doesn't know what to say aside from mumbling an occasional "mm-hmm."

"Do you know if you broke anything, bro?" Alfred asks.

Papa begins to add, "Arthur, do you think his shoulder is really going to need—?"

But Dad interrupts him and says sharply, "Enough, you two. What Matthew needs more than anything at the moment is to be allowed to rest peacefully and quietly. You can ask all of your questions later, and preferably, run them by me first."

The only semi-positive news is that his nose is displaced and too swollen to be set, and so he'll be spared any kind of procedure for a few more days until he can see an ear, nose, and throat specialist who can fix it for him. Of course, that's not exactly _good_ news, but relative to everything else that's happened so far, it's not too bad.

Dad sends Alfred and Papa off to get some food and bring him back a cup of tea, intending to clear out the room. And when they're gone, he lets out a long sigh and sits on the edge of Matthew's hospital bed, eyes grim and shimmering with sorrow. He gently tousles his hair, and they sit in silence until the moment of truth arrives.

Matthew's doctor ambles in, one hand absently fiddling with his stethoscope while the other holds up a folder filled with his charts, and says, "The hip x-ray looks clean—just a lot of swelling. CT scan came back fine, too, so there's nothing beyond the concussion for us to worry about. Now, the x-ray of his shoulder is what I really want to talk about. As suspected, he's got a proximal humerus fracture...Fractures in two places, actually."

"Non-displaced?" Dad asks, voice clipped.

"No, it's displaced."

Dad stiffens and squares his shoulders, and Matthew is filled with fear all over again.

"We'll get him prepped for surgery," the doctor says casually, and Matthew feels an abrupt urge to scream although his body can't seem to form any sounds at the moment.

The doctor explains how the procedure will work and says a surgeon will come in to offer more details and to answer any specific questions, but Matthew can't register any of his words because his mind is fixated on fear. He's going to need surgery. He's never undergone any surgery before, and the thought of being injured to the point of needing an operation has always seemed unthinkable for him. He has heard of athletes getting metal plates put into them and never regaining full mobility and strength of their limbs. These are the kinds of injuries that ruin careers and from which some people never recover, and now Matthew is going to be one of them at the mere age of seventeen.

"It's going to be okay," Dad says very softly, as if speaking too loudly will cause Matthew more harm. "It could have been much worse."

Matthew finds that hard to believe. Dad's just trying to be optimistic and calming for his sake even though he's likely freaking out underneath his practiced, clinical expression.

So when a rubber, transparent mask is placed over his mouth a few hours later and he feels some sort of medication get pushed through his IV and into his vein, he isn't fooled by how relaxed Dad and Papa try to seem. They stay with him for as long as they can, which is around the time his eyes droop and he falls asleep against his will. A second of serenity takes hold of him—a release that takes all of the pain away—and his eyes slip shut as he gently gets pulled into sleep.

* * *

He remembers how Alfred bruised his knee when they were around eight-years-old. Matthew had bribed him into playing hockey on the pond. All it took was a promise that he would let Alfred watch whatever he wanted whenever he wanted on the TV in their room for a whole week.

And so, Alfred plodded after him onto the ice like he had many times in the past, dressed in an old pair of skates that belonged to Matthew before Papa and Dad bought him new ones.

He can still picture Alfred's red and blue checkered socks, his black sweatpants, and the poofy, feather-filled coat Dad had to wrestle him into before allowing him out into the yard. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and every five minutes, he would pause their game to ask if they could go inside already, only for Matthew to insist they keep playing.

"But I'm hungry!"

"Your stomach can wait."

"Papa made spaghetti and put extra parmesan cheese on top," Alfred had whined, jutting out his lip.

"Ten more minutes."

"That's what you said ten minutes ago!"

"Stop complaining!" Matthew shouted at him, feeling only a little guilty for being so harsh on his brother.

They kicked up some shreds of ice as they started skating again, except Alfred suddenly took a particularly nasty stumble and landed on his knee. Before Matthew could reach him, Alfred was crying loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, and Papa and Dad were rushing over to investigate.

Alfred was carried into the house, and Dad put ice on his knee and wrapped it in a compression bandage. Meanwhile, Alfred howled and howled for another half an hour, dramatically asserting that he was going to die from the pain even though Dad told him he was perfectly fine. A cup of Papa's hot chocolate with whipped cream and mini marshmallows finally set him straight again, and Alfred was running around the house no more than two hours after the incident.

Nonetheless, not even bribing Alfred with extra TV privileges could get him to come out to play hockey again, and for a number of weeks, Matthew was left without a training partner until Alfred finally got over the mental trauma of his fall and stopped being afraid of wearing skates.

If only things could still be that simple. If only Papa could make him a cup of hot chocolate and that could somehow cure him. It could've been just a scrape or a bruise. He could've gotten back up again in two hours and moved on.

* * *

"So, how long does it take for something like that to get better?"

"It depends—usually up to a year, sometimes longer."

"Shit…"

"Alfred, mind your language, please."

"Sorry, that's just really screwed up. So, he can't play hockey for at least a year?"

"So it would seem."

"But even then, his shoulder will never be the same again, right? I mean, they put like a bunch of metal screws in there, didn't they? He's like Iron Man now."

"That's not _at all_ the proper way to describe the situation, and I cannot even begin to say how horrendous and offensive that comparison is."

"What? Iron Man is an incredible superhero. Everybody loves him."

"Don't allow me to hear you repeat anything you've just said to Matthew when he wakes up."

"Too late, Dad. Look, he's opening his eyes...Matt? Can you hear us? You okay, dude? Why aren't you saying anything?" Alfred questions him, leaning in so close that his nose is inches away from Matthew's face. "Dad, I thought you said the surgery went well. Why's he all loopy-looking?"

"The anesthesia hasn't fully worn off yet. Give him a moment," Dad replies. "Stay with him. I'm going to get Papa to let him know he's awake."

"Will do! I'll keep an eye on him," Alfred promises with a mock salute. He tilts his head to one side and squints at Matthew, searching his face for some kind of sign of awareness. "Matt? You survived."

There's a buzz in Matthew's head—like white noise or static from the TV. He runs his cotton tongue around his mouth and swallows thickly, feeling an urge to gag even though he doesn't know why. He tries to move his injured arm, which turns out to be an awful idea because his shoulder starts pulsating with a stabbing kind of pain.

"I-I'm alive?" he manages to ask after another minute passes.

"Sorry to break it to you, but yeah, you're as alive as ever," Alfred teases him, reaching down to push aside his sweaty bangs. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a car."

"Yeah? Well, you did get shoved into a wall by a dude that was at least sixty pounds heavier than you, so that makes sense. Want me to get you something? Water, ice, food, another pillow?"

"Water, please."

"Sure thing…Gimme a sec."

"Wait, Alfred."

"Hmm?"

Matthew wets his dry lips and murmurs, "Did you just call me Iron Man in front of Dad because of the screws in my shoulder?"

Alfred immediately turns pink and scratches the back of his neck, dancing on one foot as he debates running off or staying behind to allow himself to face his brother's wrath. "Uhhh...Maybe."

But instead of becoming upset, Matthew flashes him a weak grin and says, "You're such an idiot," which Alfred knows really means, "I love you."

Alfred returns the grin with twice as much shine and says, "Something tells me you're gonna be okay, bro."

* * *

He spends two nights in the hospital in recovery until he's given clearance to be discharged and sent home, where he won't be allowed to do any strenuous physical activity for four weeks, and then, he'll be attending physical therapy twice a week for anywhere up to sixth months or a year. It essentially means all of his college plans can be thrown right out the window because there's no way he's going to get an athletic scholarship now that he's out of commission for the foreseeable future and may never be back to his prime strength. It means he has to reevaluate everything he's been looking forward to since he was eight-years-old.

His first week out of the hospital is spent in a wheelchair because he can't stand up with his contused hip, and he can't use crutches with his immobilized arm. He has to rely heavily on his parents and Alfred to help him get around, even when it comes to small tasks like getting cereal out of the cupboard because he can't get up to reach for it. It's embarrassing.

Thankfully, after enduring seven days of having everyone constantly dote on him and act like he's made of porcelain, he can stand on his own two feet again without being in excruciating pain, and so, he's able to start hobbling about the house, though Papa and Dad still insist on driving him to and from school instead of letting him take the bus. In that time, he also gets his nose set in a stuffy doctor's office and has to suffer through a few more days of pain before it finally starts to heal.

It's going to take an eternity for Dad and Papa to stop worrying so much. He knows they don't mean to belittle him or make him feel like he's not capable of doing things on his own, but their smothering annoys him anyway.

When he returns to school after a week of staying home in bed, he isn't able to bring himself to talk to anyone. He just hangs his head and walks straight to his classes without dawdling in the hallways. A few people from the hockey team spot him and ask him if he's okay, and he thanks them and tells them he's fine before walking off again, too frazzled to hold more than a two-minute conversation.

However, the one person he does talk to is Alfred. Though their schedules are different, and they don't usually see each other much throughout the school-day, Alfred starts magically popping up in places. He shows up during Matthew's lunch period and sits down to eat with him (he later finds out that it's because Alfred cut his fourth-period physics class). He shadows him in the hallways, loiters near his locker, and even escorts him to his English class a few times.

After three days of being followed like this, Matthew decides it's time to confront Alfred about his new stalking habit. When he "conveniently" runs into Alfred during lunch again, he pulls his brother to the side and says, "You don't need to hover over me like this. I'm fine. Did Papa and Dad tell you to keep watching me?"

Alfred quirks his brow, looking a lot like Dad, and instantly denies the accusation, "No! I just wanted to hang out with my bro. What's wrong with that?"

"You don't have to lie to me, and you don't have to keep cutting physics class, or you're going to fail. I'm okay, Alfred. Really."

Alfred wrings his hands and frowns, eyes flittering at all of the other students passing by them. "I'll stop lying to you when you stop lying to me. You're not fine. You've been depressed, and ignoring everybody and acting like everything is okay isn't going to make you feel any better. You need to talk to someone. You've gotta let yourself live a little again."

"No offense, but I don't think you're the best person to give me advice," Matthew replies with a scoff. He picks at the mac and cheese on his lunch tray for several minutes before giving up and dropping his fork, feeling Alfred's searing gaze burning holes into his flesh the whole time.

"Look at yourself—you're not even eating anymore. Living like this isn't healthy, you know."

"Thanks, Dr. Alfred, I'll keep that in mind."

"You don't have to get so snappy with me for telling the truth," Alfred says as he picks up his own fork and steals some of Matthew's food.

"At least I'm not the one who's going to fail physics."

"I won't fail! Mr. Edelstein loves me."

Matthew smirks wryly. "Sure he does…I'm sure he loves you a whole bunch now that he hasn't had to see you all week."

"Ha-ha," Alfred sings, feigning a monotone laugh. "So funny…Listen, you're going to have some fun, and I don't care whether you want to or not. Meet me at the back of the school after the final bell, okay? I already texted Papa not to pick us up and told him we're going to a basketball game."

"But we're not going to a basketball game?"

"Obviously not."

Matthew frowns. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, well. If you wanna mope around and do nothing, then go ahead. I'm just trying to do you a favor," Alfred reasons, stealing another bite of mac and cheese before standing up from their lunch table and cracking his knuckles with a contented sigh. "I've gotta get to math. See ya later?"

He's going to regret this, but it's not like he has anything to lose anyway. His life has already hit rock bottom. "Okay, fine. I'll go."

Sometimes, Matthew wishes he could be more like Alfred. Things always seem to fall into place for his brother. He doesn't study, doesn't worry about what college he's going to go to, or what he's going to do with the rest of his life. He can skip class and not feel guilty about it. Either he doesn't care or he pretends not to, and Matthew can't tell which option holds more truth.

He can copy the homework off of someone else five minutes before the bell rings and still get a B. He enjoys living a life of a rebellion, and somehow, that makes him charismatic. Although he's often reprimanded and loves to stir up trouble just for the sake of causing chaos, everyone still loves him. His teachers have a soft spot for his antics, and even when Dad and Papa punish him, they don't stay upset for long, and they still laugh at his cheesy jokes and gleaming smiles.

Meanwhile, Matthew is the boring, goodie-two-shoes who always follows the rules and never stands out. Now that he doesn't have hockey to fall back on as his one interesting character trait, he feels like he doesn't have an identity at all. He's just another face in this crowd of students. He wonders if he's spent so long trying to think of who he wants to become that he's forgotten who he is.

So when the buzz of the last bell echoes throughout the school, he chooses to take up Alfred's offer. With a limp in his gait and his arm dangling from its sling, he meets his brother at the back of the building. It's cold out—spring hasn't chased off the winter chill yet—and he drapes his coat around himself, only managing to put on one sleeve while the other hangs off of his throbbing shoulder.

Alfred is leaning against the chain-link fence, backpack on the ground by his feet. He looks shady and suspicious, which isn't anything new. A few tufts of blond hair are peeking out from underneath his gray beanie, and his hands are stuffed in the pockets of the navy blue bomber jacket Papa bought for him last month.

"Hey, Mattie! I can't believe you actually showed up. I thought you were going to bail on me, and I'd have to find some new plans," Alfred admits, stooping down to unzip his backpack. "First things first...Gotta make sure I have everything...Okay, cool. Ready to go?"

"Where are we going?"

"That's for me to know and for you to find out, young grasshopper."

"I don't know if I trust you," Matthew says, knitting his brows together.

"Come on, this'll be some good sibling bonding, and maybe you'll learn something along the way," Alfred insists with an ever-cheery smile. He zips up his bag again and moves away from the fence, revealing a hole in the wire mesh that looks as if it's been pried apart and stretched past its breaking point many times. "You crawl through first."

This isn't a good idea. Matthew can feel a bubble of anxiety already swelling in his stomach. He's going to get caught and in trouble for doing something stupid and being Alfred's accomplice. He should have gone home when he had the chance. "Why can't you go first?"

"Because I have to keep watch."

No, this isn't good at all, but it's too late to turn back now.

Carefully, Matthew crouches down and fits himself through the hole, minding his shoulder. When his coat gets snagged on a wire, Alfred frees him and then hikes in after him.

"Are we trespassing?" Matthew asks worriedly, spinning around to make sure they aren't being watched.

"Nah, this leads straight into the woods. No one owns this place," Alfred promises, but Matthew isn't sure if he should feel reassured by this.

They walk into a grove, branches and twigs snapping underneath their weight as they pass, and Matthew bites his lip, waiting for someone or something to jump out of the bushes.

"Dude, you need to relax. Everything's fine. I've done this a ton of times with my friends."

"I just don't want to be arrested, okay?"

"We're not gonna get arrested. Chill," Alfred sighs, leading them farther in, and now Matthew really has no choice but to stay close to his brother because he's not quite sure how to get back to the school from here since the winding path has disoriented his sense of direction.

After another ten minutes of walking, Alfred finally stops, glances about, and plops himself down by one of the many trees around them. Upon closer inspection, Matthew can see the remains of a campfire beside his brother and some moss-covered logs that have been set up as benches.

"Make yourself at home," Alfred says as he gathers some sticks and dried shrubs for tinder. Then, he pulls a box of matches out of his bag and reignites the campfire, meticulously shielding the flames from the wind and allowing them to grow before he sits back on his knees and admires his work.

Needless to say, Matthew isn't impressed. "What? You brought me all the way here to roast some marshmallows?"

"Ah, crap! That's what I forgot! Marshmallows!" Alfred cries out, frowning. "Oh, well. Guess we'll have to bring 'em next time…Come on, sit down already and stop looking like you're gonna explode. Everything'll be fine if you just trust me."

Still silently fuming, Matthew begrudgingly sits down on the other side of the fire and scowls as Alfred pulls out a bottle and from his backpack. He recognizes the label from Papa's wine cabinet.

"You stole Papa's wine?"

"I didn't _steal_ it, Matthew. I'm borrowing it. There's a difference."

"We're not old enough to drink," Matthew points out lamely, feeling like a little kid.

"What's the big deal? Papa and Dad have let us drink before."

"Yeah, a _sip_!"

"Well, we're not gonna drink the whole bottle, so don't worry about it. It's not like you're gonna get drunk or anything. It's just for atmospheric purposes," Alfred explains before producing two plastic cups and a corkscrew from his bag as well. "You should see your face right now. I'd take a picture, but the sun's going down and you wouldn't really be able to see it that well. Don't be such a chicken. It's just wine. Seriously, sometimes it's hard to believe we're related. Even Papa and Dad would be laughing at you right now."

Matthew glares as Alfred pours some wine into a cup and shoves it into his hand. He reluctantly brings it up to his nose, sniffs it, and swishes it around a few times before taking a hesitant sip when Alfred shouts a jolly "cheers!"

It tastes fine, and when he swallows, he can feel it warm his chest and settle comfortably into his stomach.

"See? You're still alive, aren't you?" Alfred teases him, poking him in his ribcage with a chuckle. "For a hockey player, you're such a killjoy."

After weeks of being treated like a vulnerable child, something about Alfred bullying him feels good. He feels tougher, and he prefers feeling anger over self-pity.

"I'm sorry for bringing up hockey," Alfred suddenly whispers, thinking he has hurt him.

"No, don't be. Please don't be sorry for me."

Alfred doesn't say anything in response. They just sit still and listen to the crackling fire as they sip their wine. The sky turns a dark blue, the stars come out, and maybe it's the rising ashes from the fire or the wine that makes Matthew's eyes water, but a moment later, he's crying big, fat, ugly tears and wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat. Everything hurts, but it's not because of his shoulder or any other physical pain. He now knows what it means to feel heartbroken. There's a heaviness in his chest he just can't get rid of, and it feels like someone is pulling him apart from the inside.

"Aww, Matt, I—"

"No, don't say sorry!" he snaps, surprised by his own rage. "Don't fucking say sorry."

Stunned, Alfred blinks at him and puts a hand over his mouth. "Did you just swear? Did my brother just drop an f-bomb? Holy hell. Who are you and what have you done with Matt?"

"Fuck! Fucking shit!"

"Woo! You tell 'em, Mattie!" Alfred encourages him, rising to his feet. He picks up a nearby stick, holds it out for Matthew to take, and says, "Hit that tree! You'll feel better."

Matthew snatches up the stick and whacks it against the tree over and over again with one arm, using increasing force as tears continue streaming down his face. He knows he's being ridiculous, but right now, this is helping, and that's all that matters. With every hit, he feels lighter. His vision is blurry with tears, and he's sobbing against his will, but he keeps his focus on the tree, landing hit after hit until he tires and is left panting. He drops the stick, watches his tears dribble down from his chin and onto the grass below, and then rests his head against the tree, gasping.

Alfred's hand touches his back and rubs circles into it. "Matt…"

He wrenches himself away from the tree and chugs another cupful of wine, coughing as he tries to catch his breath again. "Let's not talk about it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, wanna light some fireworks now?" Alfred asks.

"You have fireworks?"

Alfred responds by lifting a cardboard box out of his backpack and flaunting it.

"Do you carry any actual schoolbooks in that bag?" Matthew jokes brokenly.

"Sometimes—when I don't have to make room for more important stuff."

Alfred jogs a few yards away from the fire, lights the end of one of the fireworks with another match, sticks it in the ground, and retreats a short distance away for safety. A second passes, and a whooshing sound fills the air before the firework whizzes upward in a spiral, hisses, and explodes into a small flurry of red.

"Your turn," Alfred says when it's over, holding one of the smaller fireworks in the palm of his hand.

Obligingly, he takes the firework and lets Alfred strike a match and light it before throwing it as hard as he can. It goes flying down the dirt path and cracks open, releasing blue sparks and a puff of smoke.

"Ha-ha! Good job, dude!" Alfred praises him, mussing up his hair. "Feel good?"

"Yeah," Matthew sighs, letting out a long breath.

Alfred grins and takes a swig of wine. The sound of a police siren goes off in the distance, and they both stop in their tracks, eyes widening to the size of saucers as they meet each other's eyes.

Thankfully, Alfred comes to his senses quickly, snags a bottle of water from his bag, and pours it over the campfire, extinguishing it. Then, he cleans up their things in a rush of movement, swings his and Matthew's backpacks over his shoulders, and grabs Matthew by the hand before dragging him back up the path and out of the grove, breathing hard.

"I thought you said we weren't going to get arrested," Matthew says with a harsh whisper.

"Because we're not going to if you hurry up," Alfred vows, urging Matthew to keep moving. "Maybe the fireworks weren't such a good idea."

"That's not the only illegal thing you made me do today."

"I know, isn't it great?"

Matthew wants to yell at Alfred, but that's when he feels the smile still stuck to his face and is reminded of how good it feels to be the irresponsible one for once. He gets to be a dumb, reckless teen for a while. Some rules need to be broken, and he feels like a new person with a brand new life—no expectations, no worries, no scars. A whole new Matthew.

Free to be anything he wants to be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Here's the last chapter, guys! Sorry it took me a while to finish. Endings are always the hardest for me. I hope you enjoyed this little fic, and if you did (or didn't) please leave a review!

* * *

"How was the game, boys?" Papa asks as they enter the foyer, their cheeks still pink with excitement and adrenaline.

The house feels unbearably hot once the front door creaks shut. Matthew's hands and feet are tingling, restless. He can nearly feel the pent up energy building beneath his skin, begging to be set free.

"It was great, Papa. Our school won by over fifty points—pretty impressive considering we didn't even make it to the regional play-offs last season," Alfred says, voice steady and well-rehearsed. He's a fantastic liar when it comes to covering up his tracks.

"How nice," Papa replies, not doubting Alfred for even a second. It's a good thing he's not much of a sports aficionado, or else he might have pried them for more details.

And all the while, Matthew can't believe they haven't been caught. He was sure something would have given them away. His lack of experience alone with rebellion and lying to his parents should have been enough to put the nail in his coffin.

He and Alfred hang up their coats and kick off their shoes, but as they're going upstairs to their respective rooms, they run into Dad, who happens to come out of the bathroom and out into the hallway, stopping them mid-step. He's clad in a pair of moccasin slippers, flannel pajama pants, and a sweater, which means he doesn't appear nearly as intimidating as he normally would, given the circumstances.

"Hello, boys! Enjoy the game?"

For a brief instant, Matthew thinks he sees Alfred's grin falter, but then it comes back again with full force.

"Yeah, it was awesome! We just finished telling Papa all about it, didn't we, Matt? I think our school's team is gonna go far this year." his brother says smoothly.

"I'm glad you both had fun…Is everything all right, Matthew? You seem uneasy."

Matthew swallows hard and tries to put on a brave face. He's not good at this. He's going to be the reason they'll end up grounded at this rate, and Alfred will never trust him to maintain his cool again.

"I'm f-fine, Dad," he mumbles unconvincingly. "Just tired, is all."

"Too much excitement?" Dad asks, a small smile on his lips. Does he know? No, that's not possible. How could he?

"Y-Yeah, I think I'm gonna go to bed early."

"Do you need me to bring you your pain medication?"

"No, I think I'm okay for now, thanks."

Dad nods his head, looks both of them over once more with his roving, inquisitive eyes, and says, "All right, boys. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," Matthew and Alfred say in unison as their father retreats into his and Papa's bedroom, except Matthew lets out a sigh of relief when it's over.

Maybe he's not as bad at being bad as he thought.

* * *

The excursions with Alfred don't stop there. Their little campfire bonding sessions continue to be a weekly routine for them, except they aren't quite as dramatic as the first outing was. In a strange way, it almost becomes like therapy for Matthew. Every Friday, they crawl under the fence at the back of the school grounds and go off into the woods, armed with snacks and something from Papa's wine cabinet.

That is until Alfred finally gets in trouble for skipping physics.

"Mr. Edelstein rang this afternoon to ask if you were all right, Alfred. Apparently, you've missed class five times due to 'illness.' Now, correct me if I'm mistaken, but I don't recall you being ill," Dad says, sounding stern. He's standing over Alfred in the living room, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

"Well, there was that one time I had that stomach thing," Alfred murmurs in his feeble defense.

"That was in January. These absences are recent. Would you like a moment to fabricate a better story?"

"Actually, yes."

Dad's unamused by Alfred's cheekiness today. "You're grounded."

"Wait! You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!"

"I don't require an explanation. I want you to go to class, and you're going to write a letter of apology to Mr. Edelstein. You're also going to make up all of the assignments you've missed and ask if there's any extra work you could do to raise your grade."

Alfred groans but ultimately concedes. "Sounds fair, I guess."

"And no videogames for a month."

"No fair!"

"You won't have time for games with all of the homework you'll be doing," Dad reasons, leaving no room for argument, and so, that's that.

It's pretty selfish of Alfred to get in trouble like this and have to cut off their Friday meetings. Now, Matthew has to suffer along with him because the one time of the week he actually looked forward to has been stripped away from him.

"Also, there's something else I've been meaning to ask you about," Dad continues, and Matthew leans his ear in closer from the head of the stairs to listen. "Papa has informed me that it appears someone has been tampering with his wine collection."

Matthew's heart skips a beat.

"So?"

"Don't 'so?' me, young man. I'm only going to ask you this once, and I expect the truth—did you take anything out of the wine cabinet?"

"I don't know what you're—"

Dad sharpens his voice and interjects, "Answer the question. Yes or no?"

Something switches on in Matthew's brain, and he's tempted to jump out and say he's the responsible one. After all, Alfred has been doing all of this for his benefit. Furthermore, part of him _wants_ to be punished. He wants a lecture. He wants to take the blame for once in his life. He wants someone to be disappointed in him, just as life has disappointed him by ruining his chances at playing hockey professionally. It makes complete and utter sense to him at the time.

He comes out from his hiding spot and trots downstairs, mind made up.

Dad must not realize he's been eavesdropping and probably thinks he's just passing by because he says, "Matthew, I'm having a word with your brother. Could you give us a moment?"

Reckless abandon pumping through his veins, Matthew says, almost proudly, "I've been the one stealing Papa's wine."

Both Dad and Alfred look at him like they think he's playing a practical joke on them. It takes a long time for Dad to recover from his astonishment, and he looks over at Alfred as if wanting to confirm he's heard Matthew correctly.

"He's lying," Alfred declares. "It was me."

The nerve of him! Trying to steal his spotlight like that!

"No, it was me!"

Dad gapes at them both, tries to formulate some type of question, fails, and then settles on ordering, "Sit down, Matthew. Both of you are going to take turns explaining what's going on…Francis! Could you come here for a moment, please?"

Getting scolded turns out to be all kinds of wonderful that Matthew can't explain. As Papa and Dad try to piece together why he and Alfred are fighting over who gets to take the blame, Matthew sits wordlessly on the couch and has to bite back a smile.

At the same time, Alfred seems to think he's being heroic by defending his brother's innocence. He rattles off the whole truth about how they never went to that basketball game and that they've been sneaking out to the woods for weeks since then. He leaves out the details about Matthew's meltdown and the fireworks, but, in the end, their parents have heard enough to reach a verdict. Thus, they're _both_ grounded and earn themselves a month of extra chores.

When Matthew gets sent to his room, he almost laughs, overjoyed. He's finally as flawed and as much of a nuisance to his parents as every other teenager is. He can't remember the last time he was sent to his room. Isn't that depressing? He's been wasting all of his youth on some unachievable dream when he should have been appreciating it to the fullest. This is the break of a new dawn—another opportunity to make himself into someone he can look back to and feel proud of. Being young and reckless is a time everyone reminisces on with at least some fondness, right?

There's a knock on his door, and without waiting for a response, Papa invites himself in and sits in the chair by his desk, hands folded in his lap.

Oh, no, they're going to have a heart-to-heart, aren't they? He's not in the mood. He wants to be left to brood and mope in his angst. Don't Papa and Dad know how this works? They've let Alfred wallow in misery countless times after dishing out punishments. Why can't they do the same for him?

" _Mathieu_ , we need to talk."

"Talk about what? I don't feel like talking."

"Your father and I have noticed that you haven't been acting like yourself lately. It's as though you've turned into a completely different person in just a few weeks," Papa says, eyes full of concern.

"People change."

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No, I said I don't want to talk, okay?" Matthew growls, raising his voice. "I just want to be left alone!"

"I can't help you if—"

"I don't want anyone's help! Don't you understand? I don't need your help! I can help myself."

Papa lowers his head gravely and seems hurt by his words, but Matthew doesn't apologize because he means what he said—at least somewhat. He won't tolerate being babied and pitied anymore. He doesn't care if this means his parents will be upset with him, as long as they stop looking at him like he's a helpless little lamb.

"I see," Papa murmurs quietly before getting up and walking out of the bedroom. He shuts the door a bit too forcefully on his way out.

But what Matthew soon learns is that the sweet taste of rebellion can quickly become sour. What hurts the most is how Papa gives him the cold shoulder from that point on. Even if he's just standing a couple of feet away from him, he can feel his papa's disappointment surrounding him like a constant fog.

Yet, still, he can't put his pride aside to apologize. He wants to assert his independence for once. In less than a year, he'll be a legal adult and that means he has to start being able to care for himself without Dad and Papa coordinating his every move. He has to be able to recover from his injuries on his own. To do anything less would be a sign of weakness.

So he goes about his daily life and tries not to think about his situation too much. He doesn't need anyone. You can't count on anybody to hold your hand in this world and guide you along. You have to make it on your own—fight to the top.

That said, being grounded and having to clean out the attic in his spare time really does suck though.

* * *

"Matthew, can I have a word?"

It's Dad's turn to lecture him. It's going to be tougher getting out of this heart-to-heart than the one he had with Papa—Dad doesn't back down as easily.

"Sure," he says, even though it's a lie.

"Excellent. Come on, then. How about we take a walk? The light exercise will be good for your hip." Matthew's not sure how much Dad knows about what he said to Papa the other day, but he must have at least some idea about how their argument went. The communication between his parents is usually fairly good.

He puts on his shoes and sweater before reluctantly following Dad outside, not sure what to expect or whether or not he should be feeling frightened. Either Dad is acting calm but is about to yell at him, or he's legitimately calm and is really only interested in them having a walk and a talk, which seems unlikely, frankly.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asks as they go up the block and make a left. It's comfortable out. Soon, it'll be summer, and this time, he doesn't mind seeing the cold get chased away. Cold weather holds too many painful reminders at the moment.

Dad puts his hands into his pockets and relaxes his shoulders. "You."

"I figured that's what you were going to say."

Looking straight ahead with an expressionless face, Dad continues, "You haven't been yourself lately."

"You're not the first person to tell me that, funnily enough."

"I see Alfred has been teaching you his cheeky back-talking strategies," Dad notes without any real bite. "Matthew, I know you're going through a difficult and emotional time right now. Truly."

He hums but doesn't say anything.

"I also understand that you require some space. Admittedly, Papa and I may have been a little overbearing as of late but that's only because we're worried about you. We want you to be all right, my boy. This Matthew that's running around, brooding, and being self-destructive isn't the Matthew I know. Frustration can be healthy, but I fear you're releasing that frustration in a way that's causing yourself harm."

He hangs his head and just keeps walking, pretending not to care about anything Dad is saying.

"When I told Alfred to keep a close eye on you, none of what he did was what I had in mind. Then again, I should have been prepared for something like this, knowing Alfred," Dad jokes lightly, wrapping a warm hand around his healthy shoulder. "I knew you would need someone to turn to for support other than myself or Papa, but I also should have suspected that Alfred would entice you into causing trouble."

Of course, Alfred was working with a hidden agenda in mind.

"But my real reason for wanting to speak to you today is because I want you to know that although you may feel like you've reached the end of the line, you haven't. You still have your entire life to look forward to, Matthew, and one accident isn't going to stop that."

Matthew lifts his head slightly and finally recognizes where they've been going all of this time—to the ice skating rink. They're standing right outside of it. He stares at the double doors he's walked through so many times to get to practice and shudders. Everything is just how he left it when he was wheeled away on a gurney.

Why did Dad bring him here? To make him even angrier and more upset than he already is? He glares at his father and suddenly feels hot all over like he's going to explode in rage. "I'm not going in there."

"Why not?" Dad asks innocently.

"Because I'm done with hockey...Forever."

"Really, now?"

"Yes, really."

Dad tilts his head to the side and smiles. "I don't believe that for a second. I did not raise you to merely quit when life gets difficult, did I? Answer something for me, Matthew...How many times did you have to fall in order to learn how to walk?"

He frowns and scowls because he can already tell where this is heading. "I don't know. A few times."

"And how many times did you fall before learning to ride a bike?"

"A few..."

"And to learn how to skate?"

He shakes his head and says resolutely, "It's not the same. You can't compare my accident to falling off a bike or putting on skates for the first time."

"What's the difference?" Dad asks, taking hold of his good arm and dragging him into the ice skating rink whether he wants to go or not. "Falling is a part of growing, regardless of how it occurs, isn't it?"

Dad rents himself a pair of skates, and Matthew has to bite back a groan. This can't be happening. He's not going to go skating with his father. He knows this is supposed to be some enlightening life lesson or something and Dad's trying to teach him the importance of tenacity, but it's not going to work. His mind is already made up.

So when Dad holds out a pair of skates for him to put on as well, he shoves them away and mutters, "I'm not skating. You can't make me."

"You're right, I can't make you, but I'd like you to do this for me. You see, I haven't been skating in ages, and I could use all of the help at my disposal. I'm quite rubbish at it, to be entirely honest, but I'd like to get better at it, at least somewhat."

"Sorry, I'm not much of a teacher."

Dad shrugs his shoulders and sighs as he laces up his own skates. "All right. You don't have to skate. That doesn't mean, however, that I won't."

No, no, no. Don't tell him Dad's going to displace a hip or dislocate his shoulder as well. Explaining that to Papa will be hard.

"Dad, please don't. You're going to hurt yourself."

But it's too late. His words go in one ear and out the other because before Matthew can utter out another protest, Dad's on the ice. He has to close his eyes and bury his face in his hands because he doesn't want to watch what is most certainly going to turn into a catastrophe.

Not a minute later, Matthew here's a resound thud and opens his eyes to see that, sure enough, Dad has fallen not too far away from the stanchion Matthew got rammed into during the game. He expects him to swear or make some kind of noise of displeasure, but instead, all he does is chuckle—crazy man.

He gets back onto his feet in seconds and is able to hold his balance for a little longer before slipping again. If Matthew weren't so embarrassed by his father's antics, he might find them comedic.

Matthew tries to pretend he doesn't care when his father falls over and over again on his behalf. He's a rebellious teen now—doesn't care about anyone but himself, right? He doesn't need anyone and no one should have to need him…

But with every thud, his heart breaks a little more because he knows Dad is just trying to help. Dad drove him to this rink hundreds of times—bandaged and kissed every scrape and bruise, held him every time he lost a game and told him things would get better…

Once again, Matthew feels tears well in his eyes. He stands up, swallows against the boulder in his throat, and shouts, "Stop it, Dad! I get it, okay? I get it!"

He picks up his skates, yanks them onto his feet and goes to meet his father on the ice, trembling with emotion. "Dad, please…"

Dad turns to look at him and instantly pulls him into a hug, guiding his head of wavy blond hair to his chest. "Don't give up hockey. It's what you love," he whispers.

Matthew nods as his eyes soak Dad's sweater. "I know."

"This'll be far from your last injury."

Again, he nods. He knows he's going to suffer from worse than a fractured shoulder if he keeps playing, and once upon a time, that kind of risk would not have fazed him, but things have changed. He has become more cautious now and the mere thought of holding a hockey stick again makes him shiver with anxiety.

"I'm scared, Dad," he mumbles pathetically, clinging to his father's sweater with both hands.

"So am I," Dad admits, "but some fear is inevitable."

"I'm not sure if hockey is what I really want if this kind of stuff is going to keep happening."

"That's all right. You don't have to decide whether it's something you want to continue professionally for now," Dad reassures, rubbing his back. "On the other hand, you don't have to give it up entirely either, okay?"

"Okay," Matthew agrees with a relieved sigh.

"Now, promise me you'll apologize to Papa and keep the rebellion to a minimum?"

He has to laugh softly and whispers, "Okay. Can I still rebel every once in a while?"

"If you must."

* * *

Time to lay down his pride and admit that a life of aggravating his parents and being a disappointment isn't for him. It was a nice change of pace for a while, but he doesn't want to have a bitter relationship with his parents forever. He just wanted to see what it was like to be irresponsible, but now that the enamor and mystique of getting scolded has faded, he just wants Papa to acknowledge him again. He wants to be able to have coffee with him in the morning and help him with dinner.

He never realized how much of a privilege it was to be in Papa's company—to be able to listen to him tell life stories and watch him make crepes from scratch. Papa has not only been a parent and a mentor, but he was always a friend as well—until recently, that is.

When he returns from his impromptu walk with Dad, he ambles through the front door carrying the weight of a thousand apologies in his hands, wondering if he will ever be able to restore Papa's trust and camaraderie.

Papa's in the kitchen, as expected, and when Matthew lingers outside of the doorway, hesitating to go up to him, Dad gives him an encouraging look and a little nudge.

He takes in a sharp breath, squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, and sheepishly approaches Papa, palms sweating.

"Papa, can we talk?"

Papa raises his brows and immediately turns his back on him, acting as though he's doing something very important by the stove. "Talk? To me?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you didn't need me."

Having his own words flung back at him hurts and leaves a stinging sensation in his gut. "I was wrong, and I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry...I was hurt, and it made me want to hurt other people, too—so everyone would know how I felt and stop looking at me like they were sorry for me...But I handled it in the wrong way. It was a mistake."

Papa's shoulders drop from their terse, wound up position, but he doesn't turn to face Matthew just yet.

"You don't have to forgive me. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. You've been nothing but supportive, and I was ungrateful," Matthew continues, voice cracking. "Since the accident, I'm not sure who I am anymore. I thought if I couldn't play hockey professionally and couldn't follow my dream, then I couldn't be myself—I wasn't myself...But Dad just took me down to the rink, and just being there reminded me of why I started playing hockey in the first place. I did it because it was fun, and I didn't care how many times I fell or got hurt because I knew it was worth it in the end. I did it because I wanted to and not because I was expecting to get praised for it or win some kind of award, and now I know that no matter what, I can recover and still play because I want to. I can try out for a college team with or without a scholarship."

Solid arms wrap themselves around Matthew's middle, and before he knows it, he's in Papa's embrace. "Of course I forgive you, and I'm so relieved by everything you've said."

Matthew allows himself a genuine smile and lets out a small laugh when he says, "Yeah, well, I guess it took me seeing Dad almost break a few bones for me to—"

"Wait. What did your father do, again?"

He may have said too much. "Uhh, he was trying to prove a point. He went skating and, I'm sure you can guess what happened after that."

Papa scowls, unloops his arms from their spot around Matthew's waist, and hisses, "Arthur!"

A minute later, Dad peers into the kitchen and says, "Yes? Is everything all right in here? Did you work things out?"

"Yes, but it seems I need to remind you that you're no longer twenty-five-years-old. Why did you think it would be wise to go ice skating at your age?"

Dad riles up. "I beg your pardon? I am _not_ old and decrepit. I can partake in athletic activities if I wish to do so."

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Do you always have to argue with me? Come here!" Papa commands, and after shooting the man a withering look, Dad complies. "Worse than a child..."

Papa scans Dad up and down before glaring. He points to two purple and blue patches on each of Dad's forearms and says, "You're covered in bruises."

"Not _covered_. Don't be so dramatic, frog. I was teaching Matthew a lesson."

"And you couldn't have taught him some other way that didn't involve causing yourself physical harm?"

"Did he come and apologize to you? Then, the lesson worked, and my objective was met."

Matthew knows better than to stick around for the rest of their bickering. It's going to last, at a minimum, for another fifteen minutes, and it'll result in one of his parents sleeping on the couch tonight. Best to leave while he has the chance.

"Why don't you have a lie down? After all, you _are_ three years my senior, and clearly, at your age, you should be slowing down," he hears Dad snap as he begins to retreat.

"So I worry about your well-being and this is the thanks I get? I'm attacked? This is just another example of how senile you're becoming. I can't hold a normal conversation with you."

"I'm the senile one? Just yesterday you spent an hour searching for the keys to the car only to realize they were in the pocket of your trousers the entire time."

Papa flushes red and shouts, "Oh, you're going to hold that against me forever, aren't you? How about when you confused Matthew for Alfred when we were at the grocery store last week?"

"They're twins and they look identical from the back, so it was understandable," Dad defends himself.

"I _never_ confuse my children."

"Well, aren't you father-of-the-year, then?"

"I am. You'd never be able to tell the difference between the boys if not for me."

"That's not the least bit true."

Matthew rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

* * *

Hockey for fun. Why does that seem like such a novel idea nowadays? Matthew feels like he's putting on his skates for the very first time when he convinces Alfred to play hockey with him over Christmas break. The pond by the house has frozen over again, and now that they're home from college, he can fully appreciate these little moments of being around his family. He ended up making the college hockey team during his freshman year, but still, nothing compares to the ice on this measly, small pond. It holds so many fond memories for him.

He's still not at a hundred percent. Months of physical therapy have improved the range of motion in his shoulder, but his strength is only gradually returning. Every few weeks, he feels a tad stronger, and he knows he just has to be patient and give his body time to readjust to intense physical activity again. He has to work twice as hard as everyone else on the team, but he's okay with that.

"Come at me, bro!" Alfred taunts him, dancing around the ice while in possession of the puck.

Matthew laughs and the scuffle begins as he tries to maneuver around his brother and wrestle the puck from him. A lot of it is just perseverance. If he keeps swiping at it and forcing Alfred to keep deflecting his attacks, his brother will tire eventually because they both know who has the better stamina of the two of them.

But then Alfred accidentally hooks his hockey stick into Matthew's skate, and Matthew slips on the uneven ice of the pond and falls on his butt. Unsurprisingly, the force of the fall breaks the ice, and the lower half of his body sinks into the shallow, freezing water.

"Whoa!" Alfred exclaims, instantly holding out a hand to Matthew and yanking him up onto his feet again. "You okay, bro?"

Matthew shocks himself when he starts laughing. "Yeah, I'm fine. Guess the game's over though since I broke the pond."

Alfred picks up on his contagious laughter and nods. "Sucks, but it was nice while it lasted. It'll refreeze soon. You should get inside and change into some dry clothes before Dad and Papa have a stroke."

"Roger that."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, of course. I've had worse, you know."

Alfred smiles gently. "Yeah, I know. That's what I admire about you. You're tough as nails, Mattie. A real Iron Man."

"You'd better believe it," Matthew agrees wholeheartedly, eyes bright with happiness.

Falling has never felt this good.


End file.
